


1 and 3/4 inches apart

by HelpingHanikan



Series: Reader one-shots [8]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Episode where Matt loses his hearing for a bit, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reader Insert, Season 2 Daredevil, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelpingHanikan/pseuds/HelpingHanikan
Summary: No matter what little details about himself that Matt tells there will always be a world where you're not involved. But you do get glimpses, sadly, most of those glimpses are of suffering.
Relationships: Daredevil/reader, Matt Murdock/Reader
Series: Reader one-shots [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084520
Kudos: 15





	1 and 3/4 inches apart

Foggy wasn’t down the first flight of stairs when he rang you up. Not trusting Matt to stay put or that he would listen to him at all. It was unlikely that Matt would listen if you only called him, either. But if you were there? He _probably_ wouldn’t try anything.

“Can I ask what happened?” You said, already on your way out.

“It’s better if you don’t. I’ll explain later but just, you know, don’t let him leave. Karen and I are going to be running around and can’t watch him.” Foggy explained.

“Babysitting a grown man, should be easy. I’m on my way there.”

Both Foggy and Karen have almost been shaken to the brink. If they stopped working, to breathe or even think, they would probably fall apart. You were a side character in their story. Only getting bits and pieces until it’s all over. And what was breaking them apart would then be a funny story to be told over drinks.

The story was still in the middle of its creation. Now was the part when you first heard the muffled yelling. An invisible race clock appearing in your mind. Taking 3-2-1 seconds the figure what the hell you were hearing. And then sprinting up the rest of the stairs when you finally figure out what the noise was.

The door is locked, that’s not surprising. It’s always locked when he passes the threshold, whether in or out, this is nothing new. Still you jiggled the knob; over used metal turned violently side to side while the other hand worked.

Knocking, pounding and even banging on the wood. Changing from closed fist to open palm while yelling somewhere between pleas to know what’s wrong and demands that he opens the door.

It’s when the yelling stops that action needs to be taken. Matt’s yelling was like his pulse, the only indication you had that he was still alive. Without it he might as well be dead. Adrenaline and fear create a toxic relationship within you. They pull you back to the other side of the hallway, staring down an older door.

We’ve all taken a second to stare at a closed door and fantasized about kicking it to pieces to make a dramatic entrance. In reality, you’re more likely to either kick the wrong place or are just too weak to make a grand entrance. But, in this moment, all the stars aligned to guide your foot correctly against the door. Although the stars left out the needed strength; needing three kicks to get through the 1¾ inches of wood.

“Matt! Matt!” If he didn’t respond to you through an inch of wood, it’s unlikely he would respond to it inside the apartment. And he didn’t. Sitting against the wall next to his kitchen counter. Staring straight ahead with his legs stretched out, like a child in time out.

It was an automatic reaction from all the stress and adrenaline starting to leak out. Knees slamming to the ground, crawling forward until you were between his legs. Hands cupping his face, searching for a response.

Matt’s eyes are something that the public rarely sees. Hidden behind two red lens while in court and about his everyday life. It’s in the office, or home or safe moments in the park together that they were free. Before whatever happened that caused Matt to sit against the stone wall he was in one of those states. His eyes were in full display with his head pointed directly at you.

From a distant his eyes looked white, only a shade different from the center. Closer, like when his face is in your hands, you can see a shadow of the brown color it used to be.

All this happens in a manner of seconds although it seems to be forever. Just as quickly as you held his face, his hands slammed forward. The strength of boxing away feelings almost every other day went right into your center. Hard wood floor activating the pain sensors in your elbows and head when landing. “Mathew? Fuck,” Comes just as quickly as the pain, but with less of a response. “Mathew?”

His hands stayed up for a few seconds before one ran over the arm of the other. His head turning slow to either side.

Moving slowly you mirrored his position against the kitchen counter facing forward. Keeping your legs bent just enough to keep from touching. “Matt, can you hear me?” You ask, followed by snapping fingers.

In hindsight you should have called someone. Be it a friend or 911, just somebody who could help. Instead you moved slowly, sitting on your legs against the counter. Keeping just a few inches away from him. Your legs were almost spring loaded, ready to jump forward if Matt were to seem off anymore and needed interference.

His hand closest to you starts snapping. Once, twice, three and four and five times before it stops. His head turns and takes a deep breath. With a hand still in the position of snapping.

Your name comes from his mouth in a croaked manner. Like he didn’t know how his voice worked and this was the first time he was testing it out. Although you responded he said your name again. This one was stronger but came with a shaky tone and his hand reaching out in your direction.

“I’m here, I’m right here.” You say, leaning forward and reaching out to gently take his hand.

Your legs are surprisingly durable, probably because your focus was elsewhere. Not a bit of pain or soreness resided in your legs or knees from pressing into the wooden floor. Balancing on your knees while your hand was pulled forward to his face. Pressing it close to his face, like a kiss without the lips, and keeping it close. Your name said again, just as shaky and just as worrisome.

“Mathew? Mathew?” Calling out to him, although a few inches away, was still fruitless.

Instead of reacting to his name being called he stayed focused on your hand. His other, free, hand reached past your hand and took hold just below your wrist. Gripping tight and leaning forward so the back of your hand was pressed against his cheek.

Matt has always been a picky cuddler. Like an oversized puppy dog who isn’t aware they’re too big to just randomly jump into someone’s lap. Sitting very close next to you on the couch, his arm starting around your shoulder. And then, one strong pull later, you’re in his lap while he hugs you tight. Or he outrights asks if you’d be the big spoon when sliding up next to you in bed. And, more publicly, he’ll take your hand without a second thought.

This was the reverse version of the couch. Using your arm like a climbing rope, Matt moves slowly towards you. Your name being said like a prayer, spoken light while he leaned sideways towards you.

Your legs, already poised for action, moved you next to him. Sitting up straight as he finally landed in your lap. One hand still holding yours while the other snapped next to his head that used your thighs as a pillow.

The opportunity to call for 911 or anyone was now gone. In this sitting position you didn’t think about that. Any thought of what could have been, what you could have done differently wouldn’t plague you with guilt until later on. For now you just place your free hand on the side of his you looked down at. His breathing quickened for only a second before taking the hand, too. Pulling it to his face and getting drunk on your familiarity.

Mathew had never realized just how much of your hands he had memorized. Calluses and indents that couldn’t be fixed by simple lotion. Your nails and how they were manicured or chewed off were just another everyday thing in his life. It was the same with the smells.

That same lotion you used, your coffee lunch and sweat from work all created you. It was a feeling he hid in to avoid the fear of the unknown. Throughout the time he hid in your lap he always expected to hear you. Your voice or anything that could match the smell he was trying to cover himself with.

It was probably only a few hours, maybe two or three at the most, but it felt like forever. Then there was a little thumping. A muscle moving in the chest of his seat that was more beautiful then anything could ever be. Followed by a honking horn and voice from outside the window. But he doesn’t get to hear your voice until he snaps his fingers a few more times.

This time, when he says your name, it’s not as shaky but no less soft.

“I’m here,” You say, thumb rubbing over his nose. “Mathew, I’m here.”

Before you get a chance to ask if he was okay, or what the hell happened the door knocked. And then it creaked and then Karen is speaking in a tone of fear that could match yours.

“Matt?” She asks, staying just outside the broken door.

Matt is using you as a support to stand. Speaking to you as he did: “Don’t let Karen know.” He then speaks out towards the creaking open door. “I’m here, I’m coming.”

“Hi, um, your door…” Karen says from behind the wall.

“Yeah, I gotta fix that.” Matt says.

There’s a slight back and forth with them in the entryway. The two walking around as you stayed sitting against the wall. Karen’s face changing slightly as she saw you and then the glass you hadn’t noticed. “Hair of the dog that bit ya?” She asked, nudging the glass with her foot.

It was as if someone had hit your reset button. “Oh yeah, I heard him break it while I was outside the door.” You explained, standing up. “Had my own little panic and there went the door.”

Karen seemed to have accepted that. Saying; “Remind me not to mess with your boots.”

The awkward pause that followed could only ever be matched by a child swearing in church.

“Honey, this is…it’s a client thing we have to talk about.” Matt finally says. A too nice way to say get out.

“Oh, okay, yeah.” You say, able to take a hint was it’s told to you point blank.

“I’m sorry,” Karen adds.

“No, no. Karen, it’s fine.” You say with a hand wave, taking to turn towards the door. “I’m just gonna see about getting that door fixed.”

They’re talking again the moment you pass the ‘door’. Unable to hear clearly what was being said but knowing that it didn’t involve you. You were just his girlfriend in this world; the closest you were going to be with him in other world was fixing that door.


End file.
